It's all chance, isn't it?
by Diane Langley
Summary: In 1977, Draco Malfoy finds he cannot help hanging on Lily Evans' every word, but that is acceptable as long as he does not let it influence the future... or so he hopes. Alternating chapter style.
1. Prologue

Draco Malfoy had heard the saying, "Time heals all," so many times that it had only seemed logical to test it when he was most in need of healing.

His father was in Azkaban, the Dark Lord was asking the impossible of Lucius's son – atonement for family failure, he supposed – and his mother spent more time on the verge of tears than she did showing any semblance of Malfoy pride.

The family Time Turner, an heirloom tucked away on a shelf, had been beckoning to him for weeks before he actually picked it up. It was a tempting creation, smooth wood, polished glass, grains of sand that seemed to beg him to let them fall.

"Where shall I go if I do use it?" He questioned. "Shall I calculate the turns to a certain preordained time and place?"

"Or shall I just wing it?"

That idea was almost as enticing as the idea of using the Time Turner to test everyone's most beloved time-healing parable. Malfoys did not "wing it," they did not do things without planning or purpose, and they most certainly did not seek escape from hard times. Malfoys were supposed to bear up in the face of hard times by paying others off to make the hardships vanish.

Had he learned nothing from his father's fine example?

Finally, one summer day, with a clinical, white-hot sun overhead, Draco grabbed the Time Turner off the shelf and hurried to his room, passing his mother in the kitchen as she asked the house elves to make her a bowl of porridge at two o'clock in the afternoon. He wondered how close she was to insanity; it was not like her to break the scheduled, structured Malfoy meal times.

Or perhaps her willingness to eat what she wanted when she wanted it was a step closer to sanity. He chose not to contemplate it as he walked into his room with his contraband.

What would the Dark Lord's punishment be if he found out about this evasive effort? Somehow Draco doubted that he would look kindly upon a servant's need for rest and relaxation.

There was no time to worry about it now, though.

In a world of madness, there is naught to do but embrace the chaos.

He took the Time Turner in his hands and turned it over and over and over and over…

until a flash of light overtook him and everything vanished.

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**AN**: This is the prologue for a several chapter, rather experimental fic I will be writing. To all my readers, give it a chance please?


	2. Summer of 1977

It was not until his second Time Turner adventure – the first was rather dull, involving him spending several hours hiding in a closet in the manor to avoid witnessing his own birth – that he found what he was looking for. The year was 1977, the season was summer in all its glory, and Hogsmeade was a beautiful place. Perhaps Draco just viewed his world through jaded eyes in "real time," or perhaps this particular wizarding community really was brighter, cleaner, and cheerier many years before. Summer sun was warmer in the seventies in Britain, too, he decided with an almost smile as he looked up into a rich blue sky and a radiant sun surrounded only by the fluffiest white clouds.

If the whole concept of him appreciating these things had not been repugnant enough, he found himself interested in the people, peering at them curiously as he strolled along the cobbled paths. He forced himself to swallow and not correct himself with family logic; he was here for him, no one else and nothing else. Here, he did not have to uphold the ideals that he had been raised into. Here, it was okay to look and think, 'Damn, what a beautiful day.' He kicked a rock spontaneously, as he had seen other kids do all throughout his childhood. There was no surge of entertainment, no suddenly-released endorphins. Well, it seemed that certain "simple pleasure" was still beyond his understanding. Comparing this time to his own, however, was fascinating.

The Hog's Head looked exactly the same; he could have sworn that even the rusty patches on the sign around the name were identical. The patrons entering looked different, though. Less hoods drawn around faces, less shuffling steps… nobody was hiding. Draco tried to think about the time frame he knew of the Dark Lord. He had risen to power by this time, but it was clear from the world he was looking at now that the "Reign of Terror" was not as pervasive as history claimed. Or perhaps it had not tipped its way into the merry community of Hogsmeade, nestled so close to the haven of Hogwarts, a sanctuary from the dark arts.

Draco decided he was not here for a history lesson, not to analyze his master's past rule. Instead, he was here to forget about that very thing, and the best way to do that would be to pretend the Dark Lord did not even exist here.

So he took in the sights and the sounds and the smells – what on earth could smell so good coming out of Madam Puddifoot's repulsive little tea shop? – while he tried to seek out the differences in this Hogsmeade from the one who he knew well. Some were minuscule, but others were quite noticeable.

For instance, Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop loomed ahead, a story taller than the small stationary shop he knew, and he felt the unfamiliar tug of curiosity. _Curiosity killed the cat_, he thought, and then almost chuckled._ And 'time heals all.' Since when did you put so much stock in proverbs?_

Still, curiosity was not a family trait. They were intelligent but narrow, focused only on what was requisite to tasks at hand. Spontaneous jaunts into stores for no purpose but to see what was inside… that was not the Malfoy way of doing things, so it was precisely the way he was going to do things today.

He strolled across the cobblestones, polished black shoes clicking, and wondered why he had not thought to put on something more casual. His white button-down shirt, cuffed to the elbows, and khaki pants were not formal wear, but he knew that the average Hogwarts student, which is all he wanted to be perceived as in this past world, did not have on dress shoes that the servants polished faithfully every morning. It was a little too debonair and put together from head to toe, in fact. Oh well. He would remedy that if he took another journey to the past in the future… as paradoxical as that sounded.

A bell chimed to announce a customer as he pushed open the heavy green Scrivenshaft's door. The interior was not at all the shop he knew in his modern world. Instead of a few crooked, overloaded shelves, covered in paper, envelopes, and a far too diverse supply of quills, he saw bookshelves, rows and rows of them. Smiling and waving authors watched him from a banner that proclaimed NEW RELEASES, so he started there. He recognized some of the novels on the shelves, such as Marah's _Taken From Time_, considered a modern classic in his time. Now, though, it was proudly proclaimed as a London Review's current bestseller. He had never read it; he was not a big fan of novels and extraneous reading for pleasure. He read for information and naught more.

"Not here, I don't," He corrected himself aloud, reaching for the novel. "I'll at least read the back cover."

The book had none of the "Hailed as a literary masterpiece!" on the back that he was sure a modern copy would have had. Instead it described a plot that sounded trite and dull. Who would want to read about the trial of a mentally-retarded wizard accused of killing his guardian, who had taken him in when no one else would? Well, he supposed he would, in this past where he was trying something new. The idea had little appeal, but it had more appeal than returning to the present, where he was packing his trunk for the start of his sixth year, a sixth year that promised to be torturous.

He remembered the Dark Lord stroking a long – repulsively long actually – finger along his forearm. "I will wait until you have proven your loyalty, Malfoy, before I mark you as my own, until you prove your worthiness." The voice had been a hissing whisper that could induce only fear or perverse respect.

_Unless you are Bellatrix Lestrange who has to barely refrain from moaning sexual ecstasy every time her master speaks,_ he amended coldly. The devilish woman was a caricature of a human, a model of the deranged, too-faithful servant-slave. She was also the epitome of what he never hoped to be. It was one thing to believe in the Dark Lord's set of beliefs, to respect his rise to power and his immense magical prowess, but it was another entirely to lose oneself to servitude. Draco was a Malfoy first, a Death Eater second. His identity came before his role to his master.

_If only in your head_, a demented neuron in his brain hissed, and he frowned. He liked to think he did not blame himself for serving a master, but sometimes that neuron, perhaps the one in his brain best named Doubt, would hiss its own opinions.

He walked up to the archaic register, a monstrous wooden concoction that was more likely from the 1920's than 70's, and the archaic old man standing behind it. Looking at the wizened old man, Draco nearly laughed – again. It had been happening excessively thus far today. It seemed that the man behind the counter was old Mister Scrivenshaft himself, though, a notorious figure in wizarding history for his "extracurricular" activities during his time as a Hogwarts professor. It was joked that the only reason he started his shop was to create another opportunity to ogle students.

"Is that all you'll be wanting, young man?" The elderly wizard questioned, fingers hovering over the register's keys. Draco nodded, pleasantly thrilled by the anonymity of just being an ordinary young man. "It'll be 12 Sickles."

Draco nodded again, reaching into his pocket. It was empty. He looked up with surprise flickering in his pale eyes. "I am afraid I forgot my – " He began, embarrassed, when a voice suddenly interrupted,

"I'll pay it, Mister Scrivenshaft."

Draco turned to look over his shoulder to see someone about his own age standing there. His first thought was not gratitude for her sudden act of kindness towards a stranger, though it probably should have been. No, his first thought was that she was beautiful, with her open, kind expression, bright green eyes and hair that would have put the gingery Weasleys to shame. Her voice was not too bad either, lilting and friendly. It reminded him a bit of a Labrador Retriever, this frank, overt act of kindness, but unlike Labradors, which he found repulsive in their amicability, she was pleasant in her friendliness. As she handed over the coins to Mister Scrivenshaft, he thought for a few seconds as if to remember how and then made the muscles in his face smile voluntarily. Ah. That was not so hard.

"Thank you," he said, trying on manners without cold obligation. That wasn't so hard either, it seemed.

"You're welcome," she smiled. He noted that her smile came quickly and easily and was probably much more sincere-looking than his, which felt strained from his attempt to hold it for more than a few seconds. "I forget my pocket change all the time when I come in here, and a couple of times, Mister Scrivenshaft has let me sit and read the book for free. So it's good to return little acts of kindness whenever possible."

"I suppose that is a good philosophy to work off of," he replied as objectively as he could, though it sounded a little stiff, and she laughed. He frowned. Her laugh, and the sparkle in those eyes, suggested a laugh that was at him, not with him. "What is funny?"

She laughed again. "You sound like a little old man. 'A good philosophy to work off of,'" she parroted him. "You can't be more than – what, two or three years older than me?"

"I cannot know that without knowing your age," he replied stiffly, coldly, not appreciating her lighthearted mockery, drawing himself up and pocketing the novel she had just purchased for him. It was a weight in his pocket, a reminder of her act of kindness. He was not sure how he felt about that.

"I am seventeen, and my name is Lily Evans." She extended a delicate hand, but he was too surprised to remember to hold out his hand.

_Your mudblood mother is dead, huh, Harry?_ His own voice echoed in his head from the past. This beautiful young woman died over a decade ago in his time and didn't have too long left in her own time, quite honestly. This radiant girl was the mudblood whose murder he had mocked her son about. A dark shadow flitted across his consciousness, an unfamiliar shape and sensation. He forced himself after a few seconds – a few seconds too late to not seem awkward – to take her hand and shake it politely.

"I am, in fact, older than you by a bit, and my name is… Scorpius." Draco had no idea where that name had come from; it was just the first to awkwardly roll off his tongue. Lily's eyes narrowed suspiciously for a second, obviously mistrustful of how long it had taken him to reply. Trying to avert her suspicion from this, he added, "How come you're back at Hogwarts already? Fall term has not started yet."

He hoped the distraction would put them back on even footing again, without suspicion or the coldness he had originally displayed. He wanted to talk to her, for a lot of reasons: one being that she was magnetic and he wanted to figure out why, but another being that she was like a puzzle piece in what was rapidly becoming his life's work. She was to become a casualty of the Dark Lord's reign, and he wanted to peer closer into just what that meant.

It was not the Malfoy style, but here, he was not a Malfoy, was he? He was just plain Scorpius, a fictional character who was being acted out by Draco.

"The Headmaster opened the school dormitories up early for those of us who are muggleborn. It's not safe in my part of London, you see," she replied without a trace of fear or bitterness. There was that openness again, the easy honesty and sincerity that seemed to ooze from her every pore. It was fascinating.

"I see." He did not actually know how to best respond to this, or to push it onward into a conversation, but he did notice that they were still standing in the middle of Scrivenshafts. "Well, I was planning on going and sitting and reading for a while in the nice weather. I don't see any reason why I still shouldn't enjoy the weather. Would you like to join me?" Now that he was thinking of this as acting, a theatrical performance, it was much easier. She seemed to think it over for a few seconds, brow furrowing as she nibbled unknowingly on her lower lip. Then a dazzling smile took over.

"That sounds nice. There aren't many Gryffindors back yet, so I have been lonely for the past few weeks."

"Well, I'm happy to be the solution. You lead the way. I know that many young women are hesitant about following a stranger's lead," Again, it was too easy to sound like a gentleman. Scorpius was slightly aloof, but polite and charming and warm-hearted under a cool exterior. Draco even imagined that Scorpius had a different face than his, with lighter eyes and a quicker smile. There was nothing in the world more freeing than shedding the skin he had lived in his entire life and becoming a stranger, and not in the sense that most actors did, simply on a stage where everyone knew it was a lie, but in a real world setting where this lovely girl would never know he was not really Scorpius No-Last-Name.

"There are benches under the trees along the path to the Shrieking Shack…" Suddenly she blushed. "I didn't mean to call it that. It's just an old shack, and I don't really believe it's haunted, but that's what everyone around school has been saying for the past few years. I guess I have heard the name enough that it's finally stuck."

Draco refrained from laughing. What was just a new fad-name for her was actually on the map in his time, and the Shrieking Shack was generally accepted as one of the most violently haunted buildings in Britain.

"Is that just the little shack up the trail from the main of town?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. "I've certainly never heard it shriek."

He was not sure he had ever so effectively played innocent in his life, and he was rewarded by another soft, pink blush coloring her cheeks.

"I know, I know," she replied sheepishly. "But yes, that's it. There are some benches out that way."

"Lead the way," he said politely, and they fell in stride alongside each other. Now, with introductions made, a destination chosen, and a little embarrassment having made its way around both sides of the pair, it was not hard to walk and talk about a little bit of everything and therefore, nothing. It had been so long since Draco talked about nothing that it almost made him dizzy. The well-trained, militant part of his mind tried to focus the conversation, tried to pull up questions about political issues and beliefs, but he forced it down, letting the conversation meander until they reached the benches.

There was an awkward moment of uncertainty as they both stood there, a moment of Do-We-Sit-On-One-Bench that turned out to be answered in the affirmative. They considerately took opposing sides of the bench, angled towards each other, and continued the conversation.

"What do you mean you don't follow Quidditch?" She said incredulously. "You almost look like a player."

"Almost?" Draco had chuckled at her question but did not chuckle at her statement. He had opted to say that he did not follow Quidditch, rather than try to recall his memory of old-school seventies match statistics, and it was an indignity he could bear – since it was Scorpius, not Draco, who was not up on his sports news. He could not, however, bear the indignity of him 'almost' looking like a Quidditch player. He had not showed up for practice and busted his ass for years to 'almost' look like a Quidditch player, especially when he was a Seeker. Everyone knew that Seekers were almost graceful athletes; they had to be fast, lean, and agile, and a person with an eye could typically spy a Seeker in a crowd.

"Yes," she replied without backing down, even though the twinkle in her eyes revealed that she knew exactly why he had questioned her comment.

"Why only almost?"

"Because you're too put together to be a Quidditch player!" She teased. He looked down at his starchy shirt, pressed pants and polished shoes and silently agreed with her but verbally refused to acquiesce.

"I played Quidditch for a while, actually," he said, shrugging, and immediately wondering what on earth made him shrug. Shrugging was a base, unacceptable habit that he had been trained out of at an early age; there was never any reason to show indecision, which is all a shrug did. Well, indecision or laziness, and Draco Malfoy was not inclined to reveal either of those. This girl was trouble.

"When? I would have seen you if you're only a few years older than I am," she seemed genuinely interested, smiling again, that big, warm smile that seemed to intimate that they were true friends even though they were practically strangers. "What house were you in anyway?"

He tried to evade the first question, but he offered the second answer honestly and readily. "Slytherin, actually," he answered, preparing for the backlash frown. She was a Gryffindor, he knew, and Head Girl this final year of hers. She was not the sort of administration's angel who tolerated Slytherincy.

But she surprised him, just as she had managed to do since her first little act of kindness. Her smile did not falter, and she nodded. "I thought so. You seem like a Slytherin."

"Evil?" He replied with a smirk that did not reach his eyes.

"I was going to say abrupt, a little socially awkward and pretentiously-named," she replied, "but if you'd rather go with evil…"

Then he truly did laugh, the sound heartier than either person expected. Surprised by the laugh, they both laughed again, and Draco felt the oddest sensation that he was having an out-of-body experience because it was him laughing, not Scorpius, the fictional role he was playing. He was laughing, and he honestly could not remember the last time he laughed at something that was not tinged with cruelty. He fingered the Time Turner in his pocket; it was amazing what such a tiny device had the power to do.

"I'll stick with abrupt, socially awkward and pretentiously-named, I guess," he conceded, "as long you'll still sit and talk with me."

"Of course. I suspected you were a filthy Slytherin from the start, you know," she teased.

"Then why did you offer to buy my book for me instead of letting karma pay me back for my evil deeds?" He grinned at her.

"Because there's always hope for redemption, my dear Scorpius." She replied loftily, putting on mocking condescension that should have made him laugh except for his focus being too intently on the actual words she had uttered.

He paused when she said that and looked at her green eyes, lush with life and vibrancy. She looked like an angel somehow, and he found that he was hanging onto her words as if they were a message straight from God to a sinner. "Do you really believe that?" He asked, trying to sound casual, trying to sound as if it were a simple query. He even cracked a smile, but she already read him better than that. She did not smile when she replied.

"Of course, I do. Redemption doesn't run on a timer. It's always an option."

Draco Malfoy could not help but wonder if hearing those words was exactly why he had needed to come to the year 1977.

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**AN**: I told you this story was going to be a little unusual, and I meant it. Be prepared for an alternating chapter format that is a little experimental. Drop a review and tell me your opinions on it. Please and thank you.


	3. September 1996

It was not going to be a good year. A sixth year at the fine institution of Hogwarts had been boiled down to one simple objective.

To kill the man in charge.

Albus Dumbledore… why had the Dark Lord given him of all people this assignment?

Sure, just sitting in the train car now, talking to his friends, feeling important was nice, but it did not really help anything. He had always been the big man on campus of his friends.

This new respect had always been inevitable, just like him becoming a Death Eater, just like Pansy Parkinson's bony ass wiggling on his lap. He was a Malfoy, after all.

This was his destiny was it not.

As the train lurched to the stop, he noticed something, a swish he had heard before. The fabric of an Invisibility Cloak made a very distinctive sound, like the sound of a callused hand on rough fabric, when it moved quickly.

Draco only knew of one person who had an Invisibility Cloak. Goddamned Harry Potter.

He waited while as his comrades grabbed their things and hurried off the train. He waved them on, waiting for the car to be empty. Except for he and Potter, that is.

He pulled down the window shade and turned, pulling his wand from his robes.

"_Petrificus Totalus_," he said coldly, feeling anger surge beneath his skin. There was a thump as Potter fell rigid to the ground, still unseen.

It was Potter's fault his father was in Azkaban. It was Potter's fault that he was saddled with the impossible task of killing Dumbedore. It was Potter's fault the Dark Lord had ever fallen out of power.

Suddenly a strange thought crossed his mind.

It was even Potter's fault that the Dark Lord killed Lily.

If the child had not been more important to her than her own life, she would not have had to die so young.

He thought of the kind, funny, smiling teenager he had met and then imagined a flash of green light and nothing left on her pretty face except for death.

That was the thought that made him pull the cloak off of Potter. He heard his voice talking, but the words were not important.

He looked down at Potter, looked at those suddenly too-familiar emerald eyes.

He picked up his foot and smashed it down on the nose right below Lily's eyes.

He heard the sharp sound of the nose breaking, dropped the cloak back over Potter and marched out.

But instead of satisfaction, Draco just felt sick.

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**AN: **For the few reviewers I've had, thank you. Anybody else who reads this, I'd love your feedback.


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